Tough Guys' Soft Spot

Yesterday brought the tragic news that Wade Belak, a 35-year-old defenseman who formerly played for the NHL’s Nashville Predators, died of an apparent suicide. Belak’s death, incredibly, is the third this offseason for the NHL. Last week, Rick Rypien, a 27-year-old enforcer for the Vancouver Canucks, was found dead in his Alberta apartment, and last May, New York Rangers’ forward Derek Boogaard, 28, long considered to be among the league’s most fearsome fighters, died of an accidental drug overdose after mixing alcohol with Oxycodone.

The three deaths have renewed interest in the role that enforcers play in the NHL—and the long-term consequences, particularly to an athlete’s mental health, that may result from repeated trauma to the head over the course of a grueling, 82-game schedule.

Among the former athletes who spoke up was 28-year-old former Philadelphia Flyers’ enforcer Riley Cote, currently an assistant coach with the AHL’s Adirondack Phantoms, who recently retired from the NHL after four seasons. In that span, Cote consistently finished among the team’s leaders in penalty minutes and fights. He talked to Men’s Health about the risks of the job, and what eventually drove him to give it up.

NHL fighters are often described as being part of a brotherhood. Did you know Rick, Wade, or Derek particularly well?

I wouldn’t say I knew them well. I met all three of them a few times—mostly through NHLPA [players union] meetings, but we weren’t close. I always had respect for them, though.

Like you, all three of those guys were known as fighters. What kind of a toll does fighting take on your body over the course of an 82-game season?

I can tell you one thing—it played a big part in my decision to retire. It’s not natural to fight 82 times a year. Not that anyone does, but you have to be ready to fight, physically and mentally. You get so jacked up, like you’re going to battle. It’s you or the other guy. It was always an emotional roller coaster. You’re constantly psyched up, and people don’t understand what that feels like. As soon as the game’s over, you start thinking about the next fight. It’s called “playing the role” for a reason, and it didn’t necessarily fit my personality. You meet these guys, and they’re mostly respectful, well-spoken, and smart individuals, even though what they do might look barbaric on the ice.

I mean, if you’re slugging it out night after night, you’ll take your lumps. That’s something you play through. Donald Brashear kicked the shit out of me two years ago—I had two black eyes, both of them almost completely shut, and I remember I had to go and fight Sheldon Brookbank the next night. If I didn’t, I’d lose respect—people would think, ‘Oh, I guess Cote wants the night off.’

So you wind up going through these cycles of ups and downs. When you win a fight, you’re high. When you lose, you’re low. Unlike a UFC fighter who might compete four times a year, though, I was doing this 25 or 30 times a year. You have to play the role the whole time, acting tough and crazy, and you start to become something you’re not. Of course, I’m speaking for myself, not for everybody.

What about the mental toll? Mike Milbury once said that when hockey matters most, fighters feel irrelevant. You won’t see the ice during Game 7 of the Finals.

That’s another aspect. If I wasn’t in the lineup, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. But I accepted my role as a tough guy and I did what it took to make the NHL. I took on a smaller role as the 13th forward. Ultimately, any pro athlete in that position wants to bring more to the table. Everybody feels that way. The third liner wants to be a first liner. You want to prove you can be in the lineup every night, or play 10 minutes instead of five.

I floated around 210-215 unlike some of these heavyweight guys—guys like Colton Orr, Brian McGrattan—sometimes you’re fighting a guy out of your league every night. It’s not easy. Imagine stepping into the ring with Brock Lesnar every night. It’s not all it’s made out to be. It’s emotionally draining. People say it’s hard on the body, but I think it’s more mentally draining than physically. You’re always ready to hop over the boards and fight. In a sense, it’s like being in a war zone. And you’re not in a position to say no. My teammates can’t see weakness in me.

When you were experiencing that kind of pain, did you ever reach a point where over-the-counter drugs just wouldn’t do it anymore?

I’ve been against pharmaceutical drugs for some time now. I used to take a Percoset here and there, but I was never addicted or anything. Lately I’ve become way more of health freak. That’s why I’m so opposed to this stuff—a lot of it is so preventable. When I took a pill, I knew how bad they were for me, but what’s a guy to do? Your knuckles, your head are swollen, you’re out of options. Sure, you could suck it up, I guess. But if you want something, there’s a way to get it. Nobody’s pushing it on you, but you can get it if you want it. Ultimately, it’s up to the individual. Some people are more liberal about it and others aren’t educated and don’t realize how much damage it can do. For me, there were a few times I sat on the bus and I’d say, 'My head hurts and I want this to go away.' But I’ve been good the last few years about staying straight.

In light of these tragedies, some critics have renewed their calls to get fighting out of the game for good.

That’s complete bull. The fact is, most tough guys who’ve played the game—minus Bob Probert—are still alive. Fighting’s what separates hockey from every other sport. It means instant accountability, despite the stupid instigator rule. If you screw around, we solve this the old-school way. When you take fighting out, you pretty much have soccer on ice. There are guys flying at top speed, cheap shots everywhere, and the tough guys are suddenly the rats—your Patrick Kaletas, Matt Cookes, Sean Averys—who get suspended over and over. And when a tough guy goes over to them, they turtle, and you wind up with a fighting major, an instigator, and a game misconduct for going after him.

So who’s to blame? Are team doctors at fault?

A lot of these guys are getting them from the black market, not from their doctors. Of course, doctors are overprescribing them, too. You hear about it all the time—somebody injures a hand and winds up with a prescription for 30 Percoset and two refills. Worse, these painkillers mask your emotional pain. They kill your ability to feel. Things that would normally bother you don’t bother you anymore. I can say this: Our team has never overprescribed this stuff, but I do know it happens.

So what can the NHL do to help prevent this sort of abuse?

At the end of the day, the NHL is fighting the pharmaceutical industry. The drugs on the street and on the black market will always be there. On the league’s part, maybe they could more closely monitor what the trainers have in their stock. Every Oxycodone pill should be accounted for. If there’s one missing, somebody’s in trouble. They could better educate people, too. Modern medicine is all about popping pills. It’s socially acceptable, and yet if you listen to the commercials there’s 16 side effects for every drug that cures indigestion. We should be educating people more, explaining what these medications can do to your body, to your liver. Some guys think, it’s OK—I’ll just pop a Percoset—and then suddenly you’re building a tolerance. And it’s not just sports, it’s all across the board. Any time you mix stress and personal issues with chemicals, and put it in a blender, bad things will happen.

You’re a coach now of the Adirondack Phantoms. What kind of advice do you give to younger tough guys hoping for a break?

The whole thing is anxiety. It’s natural to have that before a fight. Every fighter on earth gets it. You have to harness that. And you don’t go looking for trouble like I did. You let it come to you. Run somebody over. I sat on the bench and thought about fighting the whole time. Not one game went by where I didn’t think about it constantly. I want these guys to play the game hard—and if a fight comes, they’ll be ready for it, but they shouldn’t go on a mission. Play hockey first. That’s easier said than done, though.

Do you think Oxycodone should be banned from professional sports?

Yes—those things are designed for emergency cases, like if you’re on your death bed. There’s no other reason they should leak out. They’re bad news. You shouldn’t be able to find them on the street. I’ve never been prescribed one, but I know guys who are addicted to them, and they’re not getting them from the doctor.

A few people have suggested some form of counseling aimed at enforcers.

I admit there were probably times that I should have talked to somebody. I’d be sitting there thinking, I have to fight Georges Laraque this weekend—and just not feeling it. But unless you’ve done the job, you can’t have an outsider tell you how to mentally prepare for that kind of battle.

Many Flyers fans were surprised to see you retire so early. How did your long-term health factor into that decision?

There were three or four main factors. One was that I was probably going to get sent down to the Phantoms, and I didn’t want to go down there and fight in the minors again. At the time, I wasn’t feeling healthy mentally, either. The way I had to program my mind to think—it was unhealthy for me. At the same time, I couldn’t just retire. I wanted to stay with the Flyers, and I would’ve stayed there and slugged it out had they not offered me a coaching position. Sometimes, you just have to look at yourself in the mirror and ask—what’s more important? My NHL status or my well-being and my life? It gave me a chance to clean up my act a little bit and really find myself. I tell people all the time that my hockey career was the best and worst thing that ever happened to me. You get all the glory and the praise, but when you’re not at the forefront, a lot goes through your brain. You have a lot of gut checks. For me, I kept asking myself: Do I want to do this for the next 10 years? Will I hold up that long? You really begin to question if it’s for you. I don’t regret my decision ever, though. I’m at peace with myself. And I wasn’t always at peace on the job.

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